


Dreamers

by Lunasong365



Series: Luna's GO Poetry [7]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dreams, Implied Slash, M/M, National Geographic, Pre-Apocalypse, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>At what point had Aziraphale begun to feel more affinity with Crowley than with the angels of Heaven?</i> </p><p>A demon sleeps and an angel dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamers

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to give a nod to irisbleufic who so indelibly set in my mind that Crowley had a collection of _National Geographic_ magazines that I had to return to canon to verify otherwise.  
>  Edit: I've now added this work to 'Luna's GO Poetry' because I've posted the dream separately as a poem titled _National Geographic (dream)_ on both tumblr and DeviantArt. If you're here for the poem only, scroll down until you find the block italics.

Aziraphale stepped inside and carefully closed the door of the flat, returning Crowley’s spare key to his pocket. He stooped down to collect the post, noting there was a familiar, yellow-bound magazine included. _Hmm_ , the angel thought. _That means it’s been at least a month, and Crowley’s_ still _asleep_. He took his familiar path through the shadowed lounge to the kitchen and placed the post on the worktop. The entire room appeared to be in state of suspension, with even dust fearing to make an appearance. The potted plants continued to doze as Aziraphale returned his attention to the kitchen.

Rummaging through Crowley’s tea caddy, Aziraphale fished out a bag of Assam and snared his favourite mug from off the hook under the cupboard. Humming softly to himself, he filled the kettle from the tap and set it on the hob to boil.  He carefully slit the plastic off the _National Geographic_ and placed the wrapper in the bin, joining the other from last month and a growing accumulation of sopped tea bags. The kettle whistled, and Aziraphale prepared his cup of tea, picked up the post, and headed down the hall to Crowley’s office. He neatly added the envelopes to one existing stack on the desk and the adverts to the other. (Crowley always wanted to review the colourful fliers and catalogues before giving them the toss—part of the job, he’d said.) Aziraphale carried the _National Geographic_ over to Crowley’s impressive collection and filed it in orderly sequence on the bottom end.   

Crowley had been collecting the magazine since its initial publication in 1888. In truth, he’d missed the first few years of issues, since he’d been on a slumber then as well. Once he’d discovered the periodical, Crowley had immediately entered a subscription and coerced Aziraphale into helping him acquire the initial volumes. Crowley now possessed one of the few complete compilations of the magazine. He said he got it for the pictures; but Aziraphale knew that Crowley devoured each copy as it arrived. He didn’t keep each gold-bordered issue in pristine state in transparent wrapper—he’d read every one cover to cover. _Well, not these last two. Yet._  

Aziraphale moved from the bottom shelf to the one above, and ran his fingers covetously over the yellow spines until he reached a certain spot. _There._ That was where he’d left off on his last visit. He pulled the issue off the shelf, picked up his mug and, eschewing the luxury leather sofa in the lounge, turned the other direction toward Crowley’s bedroom. 

Other than a narrow stripe of sunlight splayed across the duvet, the room was completely dark. Aziraphale could discern a demon-sized lump under the covers. He set down the magazine and the tea on the floor next to the spartan wooden dressing chair across from the foot of Crowley’s bed and approached the other end. 

Just the top of Crowley’s head was visible, with mussed dark hair tousled against the mounded pillows. Aziraphale gently folded down the duvet to uncover Crowley’s face. Asleep, without his sunglasses, stylish clothing and sardonic demeanor, the demon looked _vulnerable_. Almost angelic—like an unruly child finally settled in for a nap. Not at all like a cunning and well-informed adversary. 

This would have been prime opportunity to proactively accomplish some good instead of defensively thwarting— _so why was he here?_ Aziraphale questioned himself. Admittedly, the current snit that had driven Crowley to bed had somehow been perceived by him as Aziraphale’s fault. That certainly didn’t obligate the angel to perform any house-sit duties. Without his opposite number, though, Aziraphale felt at a loose end. And Crowley did own that incredible magazine collection. 

Aziraphale sighed and tucked the duvet in close around Crowley. The demon unconsciously snuggled into the warmth and commenced a soft, sibilant snore. Aziraphale hummed contentedly and settled into the chair at the foot of the bed, magazine in lap and tea in hand. The sliver of sunlight slipped off the bed and diffused into a rosy glow, then deepened into dusk. _At what point had Aziraphale begun to feel more affinity with Crowley than with the angels of Heaven?_

_***_

_Aziraphale meets Crowley on the portico of the Parthenon, but weren’t they new_  
_back then? The columns, that is; freshly carved marble reflecting light from ten thousand suns_  
_time across time to a moment of Creation when all things are One. The two beings separate_  
_into a binary system of mutual orbit, dancing to an indigenous rhythm, a beat too insistent to ignore;_  
_and is it really necessary to understand how emotion affects human physiology?_

_There is poetry in the images, timeless snapshots created from light and shadow, the ephemeral_  
_captured forever and they amble through Cedar Bridge in Iowa to_  
_the Amazon basin where a stealthy jaguar waits with eternal patience outside a cave where_  
_the Dead Sea scrolls have just been discovered in safe and secret places._

_Let me tempt you, says Crowley with hand outstretched, and Aziraphale answers, Yes. They rise together_  
_like the smoke from a hundred bonfires burned as 大 into a Kyoto mountainside to shatter into flakes of_  
_snow falling, drifting--not singular, not plural; manifested from what was always there out of thin air_  
_when the moment is right and everything has changed and there are so many feathers…_

_***_

Several issues later, the sky began to pale. Crowley’d had a good night—none of those thrashing nightmares like last week. Aziraphale stretched out a crick in his neck and put the magazine down. Crowley was curled under the cover with one hand clutching the duvet binding. His lashes delicately fringed his cheek and his mouth was gracelessly hanging open. _No wonder he snores_ , Aziraphale mused fondly, plumping the pillows as best he could. He collected his mug, the well-spent tea bag and the magazine. 

“mmm, ‘Ziraphale,” Crowley mumbled. 

With his heart clenched and pounding as if caught in a surreptitious act, Aziraphale turned. 

The demon rolled over and softly resumed snoring. 

 _Pity_ , thought Aziraphale as he re-shelved the last-read issue, _that he doesn’t know the value of what he’s got right at hand_. 

In the kitchen, he tossed the tea bag to join the others in the bin, rinsed out his mug, and hung it back on the hook.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's purposefully indefinite _who_ is having the dream because it could go either way. Or both.  
>  Besides, Aziraphale just wants access to Crowley's collection.  
> I've tried to recreate the surreal experience of reading the magazine whilst under the influence of whatever potion one likes best. "Cedar Bridge" is the real name of the bridge featured in _The Bridges of Madison County_ by Robert James Waller, which also generously utilises _National Geographic_ as a plot device.


End file.
